


What Dreams May Come, Pike/Kirk/McCoy, NC-17

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Imported, LiveJournal, M/M, References to Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><a id="cutid1" name="cutid1"></a>Posted in response to <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/jim_and_bones/226838.html?thread=6476054#t6476054">this</a> <em>nnrrrghppphy</em> (what? it is so a word) threesome image in <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/jim_and_bones/226838.html?thread=6476054#t6476054">emiliglia</a>'s Semi-Weekly Man-on-Man over at <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"></span><a class="i-ljuser-profile" href="http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/"><b>jim_and_bones</b></a> .  Most definitely NSFW.  Also images locked to comm members, 18+.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Dreams May Come, Pike/Kirk/McCoy, NC-17

He doesn’t remember at the instant of waking—a trick he’s pushed his mind into learning because he’s Jim Fucking Kirk and he’s _notnotnot_ going to fucking walk around suffering and haunted by nightmares, _no fucking way_ , he’s not some noble victim—but his body’s still sweating, his muscles rigid, just _this_ side of trembling, his breath is still racing and there’s nothing to do about that except breathe deeply, quiet so no one will hear -- force himself to relax, all the techniques those otherwise useless therapists teach because you can’t erase truth, can’t erase history. He’s still pretty tacky from sweat and his skin’s begun to get cold so he starts to steal from the bed once his heart is done slinging itself into his ribs and his breath is done slicing like arrows inside his chest.

“Mmm, don’t.” A broad, smooth hot hand palms its way over his belly, up onto his shoulder, the forearm crossing his chest and not coincidentally holding him down, though it’s not the _wrong_ kind.

“Stay,” says the older, sleep-roughened voice. A smaller, reins-roughened hand slides its way up his leg as weight shifts from where he’d—they’d-- rolled away in the night as Bones shifts again, hitches his leg so it’s not just his arm pinning Jim down but his leg, too. Body heat returns, doubly so, as Chris rolls over, doesn’t suppress the small grunt and _creak, crack_ of his back and hip popping. The sound of it sends a shock through Jim too because he might have called Bones “old man” in jest during school, but Chris, well—Jim doesn’t like to think about it but it’s nonetheless true—if he doesn’t get himself killed, he’ll outlive them both. Kirks are extremely long-lived if they don’t die tragic young deaths.

He takes another deep breath—exhales, slowly, tries to _not_ sweat, tries not to think about _alone at the end, always ends up alone._ It’s not that he _regrets_ that he got out, that they found him in that shuttle he stole before he passed out, that he’s healed up because Bones always works his magic, it’s just that someday, it won’t be Bones or Chris waiting for him at the other end when he makes it out and what’s the point then except work? He wonders, some days. The way Chris’ shoulders curl in and the grooves on his face when he’s tired—the patience it takes to do all the shit, waiting to find out how many people you’ve killed with your orders. Hell, Jim at least has a choice of pushing people out of the way and taking the arrow himself, but someday _if he lives he’ll be alone and promoted and..._

“Stop thinkin’ darlin’, you’re still tired, body's still recovering,” Bones says, voice deep and slow as those clichéd molasses he likes to use in all those desserts he’s been trying to stuff into Jim this last week on R & R.

“Or should be,” Chris murmurs, agreeing, lighter voice muffled by the kiss pressed into Bones’ hip in the dim, predawn light. The shadows make the lines at the corners of eyes and mouth looks deeper than they are during the day, make his hair look darker than the alloyed iron and silver it’s gone since they met.

And he _is_ tired—weary—aches still, though not enough to ask Bones for something, not right now, not yet, not after the days—weeks-- when he didn’t have a choice about whether to wake or to sleep, much like he hadn’t had much choice about following orders to bring his _Enterprise_ to another undiscovered country—quadrant—foreign fucking frontier-- yet again hostile to Jim and his crew. Not that Chris had much choice in assigning him either, somebody had to and the flagship was best suited to weathering the ills slung at them by savages clad in warp engines and nuclear missiles. But still. He could have done without the thrice-daily beatings. Twice daily would have been fine. But it was him or Sulu and Jim knows how he’s going to choose, as if it’s got to be some kind of coin toss or something. Not even.

“I’m just going to…” gravels out of his throat before he can think about it-- unwise, his dry voice sounds like shit. His hands on one leg and the other’s not yet pushing or grasping because he’s not going to be needy, it’s just entropy, change, time and its uncoiling— but he needs to get up, to think, a change of position, find some different mood than the one that he’s in.

“Think too fuckin’ much,” Bones says, licking a swipe over Jim’s shoulder, up his neck, under his ear, digging around with the tip of his tongue as he breathes, “work and get all broody and why would you want to do that when you could stay here with us?”

“If you don’t want to go back to sleep,” Chris murmurs, and his voice is hollow and weird in the well of Jim’s belly and the curve created by Bones’ leaning over, right before he folds his hand over Jim’s cock and jerks him once, lightly, “there’s other things we can do.”

He doesn’t mean to agree but there’s an unconscious grunt from his body as Chris’ hand curls and jerks him again, and then Bones’ mouth covers his, swallowing any protest he isn’t going to make. The heat of three bare bodies sliding together, Chris’ dry, finer skin whiskering up over Jim’s as he snakes and slithers his hand over Jim’s cock, his tongue lapping at places where sweat’s dried and left Jim feeling dirty, unworthy of these two who he’s woken up though he _tried_ to be quiet, tried not to get them involved in his personal weepy bullshit it’s just going to take his stupid mind time to process and he knows that, but still, it’s hard to think when _oh, fuck_ Bones is sucking hard on one nipple and twisting the other in no kind of rhythm to what Chris is doing with his hand on Jim’s cock and then his tongue and _goddamnit, Jesus, hnnngggh, please_

“He can out-talk the Romulan Senate and get the Cardassians twisted in knots but he’s got the vocabulary of about three words in bed,” Bones snarks, but there’s laughter beneath as his tongue slides down Jim’s chest, over his belly, latches onto his cock—Jim’s about to protest when two of Chris’ fingers don’t so much shove as order themselves into Jim’s mouth and he’s okay with that so he sucks even as someone’s tongue—Chris’? Bones’?—rims him once more and some thumbs-- those have got to be Bones’, his traitorously active mind thinks-- hold him open as somebody sucks. His still stiff and aching back bows, his body shocked into coming through the hand gripping his dick and milking him through the last spurts of orgasm.

There’s shifting and murmuring even as Jim slowly drifts back, returning to those who are his first and last conscience-- he never has been a coward, and if he makes it through the end of the day it’s nice to know there’s a fragile flesh home or two to return to—and likewise, as Bones grunts and rolls Jim onto his side, then pushes his way inside Jim’s body, pulling him close, tugging him slowly. Chris shifts and smiles as he turns to face Jim, opening himself with the ordering fingers Jim’s wettened, the ones that send ships hither and yon and yet can quietly trail down the side of Jim’s face before he takes his turn at a kiss that’s both metal and velvet, a different disease than Bones’ chocolate and acid. Chris’ leg slung up over Jim’s hip holds him in place and Jim can’t help but gasp as a deepening stroke of Bones’ leaves him pithed, along for whatever ride these two take him on.

It’s soft and yet not, the deep and uneven strokes of Bones from behind and Chris’ hand gripping their cocks in the front, not so much some gentle current as an uneven, tempestuous swell of the three of them rising and falling, harsh breaths, pants and sweating and he _wants to do more fucking needy and taking_ and he can hardly hold on to the back of Chris’ neck to kiss him back right, godfuckingdamnit, even if Bones’ cock arrows right through him and makes him hard as a rock. Chris groans and shoots all over them both, the hot-metal tang of his cum splashing—but then he bites and swallows Jim’s frustrated moan right out of his mouth, says something with only flesh to Bones because then Bones is beneath him and Chris is on top. If Jim was pithed before, now he is transfixed, pinned and unable to move between the heavier, slightly more muscular doctor breathing harsh in his ear—an arm holding fast, too, over Jim’s chest, as if his cock throbbing thick in Jim’s hole isn’t going to make him stay put—and the more slightly-built admiral lowering himself with a satisfied grunt until he’s fully impaled on Jim’s cock, his hips bearing Jim’s down into Bones’ and driving ass and cock, ass and cock even deeper as his weight fully settles.

Jim’s response is half-sob, half full-body shudder.

“Hey, hey,” Chris says, leaning forward, and _oh god, too much_ the shift of his body driving him even further down onto Bones and Bones is just uttering nonsense, something about it being alright and him not having to be anyone here or some nonsense like that, everyone has to be someone until they aren’t anymore and that’s the only choice, right, to keep going and keep coming back until you just don’t, and _he already came back to them, what more do they want, he’s no good at not being alone and he knew he should have been more quiet when he tried to get out of bed, they’re better off without a fuckup like him and_ “Jim, it’s okay, just, it’ s okay,” Chris rasps in his gravelly, deep voice, so low that Jim almost doesn’t hear him except that he’s not moving now, just looking Jim right in the face like he hopes he’ll believe him when he says in a voice that is more shaky than Jim’s heard it before, even when Jim woke up for good in Sickbay this time around—“just—we always want you.”

Bones’ arm over his chest tightens so hard it practically drives all the air from his lungs—he can’t help the little squeak that escapes him and Chris’ smile is sad at Jim’s “You guys need your sleep …”

For the third time in not so many seconds—minutes—hours-- Jim finds himself rearranged. Bones grumbles “Time enough to sleep when I’m dead,” under Jim’s ear as he pulls Jim into his side. Chris murmurs agreement as he tucks himself in behind Jim and rearranges the covers over them all, then reaches over Jim in an embrace to take hold of one of Bones’ hands and turn it into a three-handed clasp that shouldn’t work—shouldn’t hold-- and yet somehow it does, there on the flat of Bones’ stomach.

He’s prick-eyed and red-faced and awkward but there are still unvoiced thankful kisses goodnight to give—so he does and tries to ignore those salt prickles that would tempt him to break hold and rub at eyes involuntarily closing once more toward sleep, perchance to dream more sweetly this time.  



End file.
